No, Thank You. I Really Prefer Not To Be Swept Off My Feet!

It was the way he moved that made me notice him...lean, muscular, panther-like agility, all packaged in faded jeans that hugged all the best places, leaving very little to my starved imagination. He walked toward me, across the ballfield, watching me, tasting me with his eyes.

This had been going on for almost an hour. From the moment he'd spotted me, he'd studied me with an honest hunger that declared his intent more than words ever could. And now he was striding across the field, coming for me. I knew he was coming for me.

My heart caught in my throat. My body ached with the possibility of his imagined caress. It had been so long. So very long.

Surely I was imagining things. He couldn't be coming for me...was he?

Oh, yes he was.

He walked right past the other moms, climbed the metal bleacher seats, taking them two at a time, until he was standing right in front of me, undeniably present...waiting.

He smelled like leather and sweat and hunger and I have never wanted anyone as much as I did in that one moment.

He held out his hand, more command than invitation.

I let him draw me to my feet, felt the world spin around me and knew with embarassing certainty that I was about to faint. It was desire, taking my breath; blood leaving my head to flood the swollen, aching parts of a body that knew all too well what this stranger offered.

My traitorous knees began to buckle. He moved, scooping me up in strong, sure arms, and smiled down at me.

"To hell with waiting," he said. "I'm taking you home, right now."

I struggle out of his arms to stand before him. "Oh, really, thanks so much for your kind offer but I don't really want to be swept off my feet. I prefer something a little less...well, shall we say, directive? I mean, I'm sort of an equal give and take kind of person, you know?"


She said what??? She doesn't want to be swept off her feet?! She doesn't want a handsome stranger to pick her out of a crowd and carry her off for what will surely be the thrill of a lifetime? She doesn't want romance and passion?

Hello?! Is there anybody out there who wants a sweet, bland love affair?

According to my informal, unscientific study, nine out of ten women want to be swept off their feet...(and I'm still not sure what the tenth one was really saying when I asked her!)

You know why?

Because there's hardly a one of us who doesn't long to be taken; swept off our feet, carried away and overwelmed by passion, emotion and the thrilling raw sensuality of a lover who knows and takes what he wants.

The takers, the tops, those lovers we all love to look down on publically seem to be the very ones we lust after privately. Why is that?

How can we survive like this?

I mean, here we are wanting to be equal partners, but we long to be taken past the point of no return in the steamy darkness of our bedrooms.


I had a lover like that. It was so smoking hot in bed I thought I would die from overindulgence...for about six months...then I was ready to kill him! He was so obnoxious, so overbearing, so freaking paternalistic!

I loved fighting with him. It was so raw; so in his face; so undeniably honest and without manipulation.

It was also so all-the-time constant!

I had to fire him. He just wore me out!

Still...if only behind closed doors, I long for that sweep you off your feet, take your breath, you can't stop this, kind of passion. Don't get me wrong, I like give and take. I like to play my own games successfully, but dazzle me with strength and confidence and I will follow you anywhere.

Which leads me to my next idea...

If the sweepers are so hard to find and in such demand...I'm thinking about switching over.

Those manly types love to have the tables turned on them. I mean, look at Halle Berry in Catwoman or Angelina Jolie in Tombraider. How hard can it be? I'll just throw on a pair of kakhi shorts, grab a sleeveless white T-shirt, lace up my construction worker boots and strap on a tool belt...better yet, I'll run down to North State Feed and Seed and pick up a bullwhip. I mean, how hard can it be, cracking that whip?

It sure didn't look hard when Halle did it!

I figure one day, years after I'm gone, they'll put up a monument...Something big, but tasteful. Something to remind us all that playing by the rules isn't all it's cracked up to be. The monument will mark the end of an era. Little girls will stand around it and gaze up at my Xena-esque bronze likeness and then turn to their mommies, puzzled.

"You mean women used to wait for men?" they'll cry. "How silly!"

Their mothers will smile ruefully. "Well, honey, that was a long, long time ago...We were still a little shy about tasting power, so we had no idea how intoxicating it could be."

The woman's husband slips his arm around her waist, lets his hand slip slowly lower to caress her before he playfully pinches the firm bottom. Their eyes meet; the promise of later clear in their exchange. The heat of impending passion makes the warm summer afternoon seem suddenly hot. There is no aphrodasiac like power.

In the background you can hear the sound of whips snapping sharply as a classful of Girl Scouts surround their leader, practicing for their next merit badge.

Nearby a few young boys lounge beneath a tree, watching the girls with unabashed interest.

"Why can't I find me a woman like that?" one asks.

Why indeed?

No comments: